By Upendra Mishra
BOSTON – Not long after I completed my master’s degree in International Journalism from the University of Southern California, a thrilling opportunity came my way. The News in Mexico City—a leading English-language daily—offered me a full-time reporting position. It was a dream come true: a reporter role in one of the world’s most vibrant and chaotic capitals.
My job in Mexico City felt like entering a movie set. The city was a swirl of contrasts—elegant colonial architecture clashing with sprawling barrios, the scent of roasted corn and tacos al pastor wafting through traffic-choked boulevards. It was alive, chaotic, romantic, and unpredictable—all at once. I had already fallen in love with it when I had arrived the very first time.
At The News, my initial beats were politics and human interest stories—territory I felt comfortable navigating. But covering Mexico’s business and economic landscape was another story. Reporting on the Bolsa (Mexico’s stock exchange), the complexities of foreign debt, and the powerful oil industry was intimidating at first. I remember pouring over documents late into the night, often with a dictionary in one hand and a calculator in the other, trying to decode balance sheets and economic jargon—en español.
Over time, something clicked. I not only understood the language of money, but began to enjoy the chase—finding leads, digging into deals, interpreting Mexico’s petroleum strategy. Despite not being part of OPEC, Mexico was one of the world’s largest oil producers, and its policies had ripple effects on global markets. My reporting began attracting attention. Industry insiders started reaching out with tips and exclusive stories. For the first time, I felt like I was truly breaking ground.
Then, one day—without warning—everything almost unraveled.
I was at my desk, filing stories, when Leo Flores, The News’s stern but fair Managing Editor, called me into his office. He looked grave. He handed me a letter from the Mexican immigration office. My work visa had an issue, and I was being ordered to leave the country within three days.
Three days.
The paper in my hand suddenly felt heavier than the world. My mind went blank. If I left Mexico, I would likely have to return to India to reapply—and I knew that if I went back, I might never return. My career, my social life, my sense of freedom—all of it was rooted in Mexico.
Panic set in.
Thankfully, a colleague came up with a lifeline: “Why not go to the U.S. instead of India? It’ll be easier to get back into Mexico from there.” It was so simple, yet I hadn’t thought of it. But there was a catch—getting a U.S. visa wasn’t easy, especially on such short notice.
Still, I had to try.
The next morning, I nervously walked into the U.S. Embassy on Paseo de la Reforma, the grand boulevard of Mexico City. I can still remember the feel of the cool concrete floors, the echo of footsteps, the hum of lights. I approached the visa counter, heart pounding.
The official glanced at my passport and smiled.
“You already have two years left on your student visa from USC.”
I nearly collapsed in relief. I thanked him profusely and left the building as if floating. That same day, I made travel arrangements to Los Angeles. I had exactly three days before my time ran out.
Those three days were a blur of anxiety. I couldn’t sleep alone in my apartment. My friend, a kind-hearted Mexican woman, invited me to stay with her family until I flew out. We traveled everywhere in her white Datsun. But every time I saw a police car, my heart jumped into my throat. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, irrationally convinced immigration officers would detain me. I was a bundle of nerves.
Finally, on the third day, she dropped me at Benito Juárez International Airport. I flew to Los Angeles, stayed with a friend overnight, and the next morning, walked into the Mexican Consulate. Within hours, my visa was stamped. Just like that, the nightmare was over.
Before returning to the chaos of Mexico City, I treated myself to a few days in Puerto Vallarta—the Pacific resort town, with its cobblestone streets, golden beaches, and salt-scented air, provided a healing pause. I needed it.
Back in Mexico City, life resumed with new energy. The News sorted out my documentation, and I threw myself into my work with even greater passion. I had found my calling: reporting on Mexico’s economic engine. Who would have thought? As a student, I had barely glanced at the business section. Now, I was writing stories that were getting picked up globally.
Then, came the next twist.
One afternoon, a quiet but significant shift occurred. Someone from United Press International (UPI) reached out. They had been following my work. UPI—then one of the top three global news agencies, along with Reuters and Associated Press—was considering me for a position.
But there were conditions.
I wouldn’t be hired as a correspondent right away. First, I had to undergo a three-month trial as a translator—translating Spanish-language news into English on a deadline. If I proved myself, they’d make a formal offer.
I was excited—but terrified. Neither Spanish nor English was my mother tongue. While I’d become proficient in both, I wasn’t sure I had the linguistic precision required by an international wire service, where every word mattered. News had to be fast, flawless, and filed within minutes. There was no room for error.
Still, how could I not try?
I met Fred Kiel, UPI’s Mexico Bureau Chief, and shared my concerns. He agreed to let me continue my full-time job at The News while taking on the UPI trial. “That’s fair,” he said.
I immediately told my editor, Roger Toll, about the opportunity. He was thrilled. “You’ve done a great job here,” he said. “This could be a major leap. We’ll support you fully.” His words felt like a warm breeze after a storm. Another angel on my path.
So began the most demanding three months of my professional life.
My new schedule was grueling. I worked at UPI from 5:00 AM to 1:00 PM, and then rushed to The News from 1:30 PM to 9:30 PM. Sixteen-hour days, non-stop, almost seven days a week as I had to do a lot of home work to ace the UPI test. My apartment was far from both offices, and commuting ate into precious time.
One night, over drinks with colleagues, I casually mentioned how hard it was to juggle both jobs. A fellow reporter smiled and said, “I live halfway between both offices. Why don’t you stay with me for a while?” Yet another God-sent gift. I took her up on the offer. We’d finish work at The News, grab tacos and beer, and head home together.
Every morning, I woke up at 4:00 AM, bleary-eyed, and walked into UPI before sunrise, always the first one in the office.
After three months of relentless effort, I got the news I had been dreaming of: I passed the test. UPI filed for my work visa. When the letter from the Mexican government arrived, I stared at the designation.
Foreign Correspondent.
I could barely believe it.
Growing up in India, I had admired foreign correspondents and diplomats from afar. They seemed like mysterious, sophisticated creatures—living lives of purpose and intrigue. And now, I was one of them.
Stay tuned for Chapter 21: Welcome to UPI—Inside the Dream Job I Never Dared to Imagine
(Upendra Mishra is the author of After the Fall: How Owen Lost Everything and Found What Really Matters, and the managing partner of The Mishra Group. He writes passionately about marketing, scriptures, and gardening. Learn more at www.UpendraMishra.com.)
